


magic to me

by wordsoverflow



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Banter, Character Bleed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Schmoop, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsoverflow/pseuds/wordsoverflow
Summary: “T,” Richard says again. Taron hears him take two, three steps closer. “Come on now. You know what we need to do.” He sounds safe, good and like everything Taron needs right now.(there's a sort of routine taron and richard have, for after particularly difficult scenes. they take care of one another.)





	magic to me

**Author's Note:**

> somewhere along the way i stumbled and fell into an enormous ocean of feelings about these two men and the work they must have put into these roles and the bond they must have created in doing so. here are some words working that thought process out.

The most difficult scenes are always scheduled for shoots at the end of the day. It’s one of those details that has made Taron appreciate Dex’s skill as director even more. Dex knew even before Taron did that there would be some scenes that would leave Taron completely drained, disarmed, shaken and in need of a reset before filming anything else.

Scenes like—

“I’ll still be collecting my twenty percent long after you’ve killed yourself.” The words are hateful, cutting, and Richard’s face when he delivers them is perfectly cold, the edge of disgust curling his lip. It isn’t Richard’s face really, at all; it isn’t the face of Taron’s best mate, the face he adores. It’s the face of a monster and Taron _loathes_ it at this moment. 

Taron _feels_ the loneliness and the pain and the raw anger well up in him. He screams, throws his whole body into the strain of the outburst, and whirls around to toss the drink glass at the door that’s just been slammed shut. It feels good to watch it shatter, break, and Taron’s heart is pounding with anger. His tears feel almost cool on the rage-hot flush of his cheeks. 

“Cut!” 

The call to cut is as jarring as it always is. With these type of scenes, however, people don’t approach or speak to Taron immediately after, the way they usually would. In fact, the crew mulling around behind the camera do their best to keep relatively quiet. Taron is breathing heavily, emotions that don’t feel like his own at all still whirling around inside him. He sits down right on the floor of the set and closes his eyes, tries to breathe in deeply. 

“T.” The single syllable is quiet, though the accent and weight of it unmistakable. Taron blinks open his eyes. Richard is standing just in front of the camera, several feet from where Taron is still sat on the ground. His face is so much softer now but Taron feels alien emotions of fear and disgust well up in him. 

“Mm,” he says wordlessly, his brow knitting and hands twisting together in agitation. 

Richard’s eyes meets his own and Taron _sees_ the way he stiffens up, jaw tightening, and knows Richard is feeling similarly. He knows because he can see it and because this is something he and Richard have talked about—in safer, sweeter places: curled up around one another on Taron’s bed, in his room where it’s dark and cool. Everything right now feels too bright and overheated. 

Richard shuts his eyes and lets out a strong breath through his nose. Taron tilts his head back, trying to focus on the industrial bars and wiring of the set ceiling above him. It just makes him dizzy, so he closes his own eyes too.

“T,” Richard says again. Taron hears him take two, three steps closer. “Come on now. You know what we need to do.” He sounds safe, good and like everything Taron needs right now. It’s easier to listen to Richard than it is to look at him right now—his voice is warmer, kinder. The voice Taron knows and not at all the voice of John Reid. It isn’t a voice that makes something inside Taron scream with hurt. 

He takes a shuddery breath, opens his eyes, and hoists himself up off the floor. He feels suddenly exposed in just the robe and the briefs; he doesn’t often feel uncomfortable in costumes for this film but scenes like this one are always the exception. He tugs the robe closed around himself and looks at Richard. Rage wells up in him but so does relief—opposing emotions, and only one of them really belongs to Taron. He just needs to escape from all those other ones, those painful feelings leftover from stepping into Elton and out of himself. 

“Hair and makeup?” Taron says. Normally, he’d reach out, sling an arm around Richard’s shoulders as they walked. But right now—it’s still too raw and unsteady for that. Instead he keeps close to Richard’s side, without touching him, and focuses on matching the pace of his own steps with Richard’s as they head over to hair and makeup. 

They’re allowed to remove the makeup themselves. Industrial strength wipes are left at each of their stations, which are stood besides one another. By the time Taron has pulled off the last bit of makeup he can, his brain already feels easier to sort through. The foreign, painful emotions are still there but now at least he can separate himself from them. 

A stylist comes over to help him remove the hair pieces and from the corner of his eye, Taron can see the same being done for Richard. He turns his head enough to see Richard tapping his fingers rapidly against his knee. Taron’s own leg is bouncing anxiously. The energy built up from a scene like that doesn’t just disappear when filming ends—it gets bottled up, stuck inside. 

“Alright,” Taron’s stylist says. Klaus, his name is. Klaus. A real person. Not a character. Taron blinks, shakes his head a bit. “You’re good to shower now, all done for the day.” Klaus pats his shoulder and strolls away. 

There’s a perfectly good shower in one of the many bathrooms at the studio, and if it were after a different scene, Taron would use it. But not today. Today… 

“Home?” Richard gets up from his chair and comes to stand near Taron. His hand hovers near Taron’s shoulder, though he doesn’t touch him. Richard means Taron’s flat, a quick three minute drive from set. 

“Yeah,” Taron agrees. He stands up himself and Richard is quick to take several steps back, to give them both the space they need right now. “I’m going to change first, though,” he tells Richard, fiddling with the hem of his robe.

Richard blinks, then looks down at himself and at the crisp-edged suit he’s still wearing. Taron watches surprise then clear discomfort cross his face. Taron knows _exactly_ how he feels. “Oh, right,” Richard mutters, and starts undoing the buttons of his suit jacket immediately, even though they’ve only just started walking towards their dressing rooms. 

Richard already has the jacket off and is working on his dress shirt by the time they reach the door to Taron’s dressing room. Taron opens the door and they both hurry inside. “Shit,” Richard says under his breath, fingers fumbling over the last few buttons.

“Here,” Taron says softly. He steps for and undoes the buttons for Richard, moving back as soon as he’s done. “Clumsy,” he teases gently. 

“Oh, and you’re always so graceful,” Richard shoots right back. 

It feels _good_ to be joking around with Richard again. This is a Taron-and-Richard thing. The smile and quick blip of happiness that rush across Taron are his alone and it’s _Richard_ that’s causing them. It’s still careful, quiet. There’s an uneasiness in the back of Taron’s mind that hasn’t quite shaken yet and his body still feels tight, and jumpy. 

They make quick work of removing their costumes before slipping into sweatpants and baggy t-shirts. Taron thinks he might have pulled Richard’s on instead of his own and doesn’t bother mentioning it. It’s comforting, in some way.

“Ready?” Taron asks, once they’ve carefully hung their costumes up on the designated hooks inside of the room. The crew is already more than used to finding both their pieces inside one or other’s room. 

When he catches Richard’s eye, Taron’s gut clenches with unnecessary anxiety even as he feels fondness swell in his chest. The clash of emotions is wildly uncomfortable and Taron grimaces a bit. 

“Yeah,” Richard says, rolling his shoulders as if to relieve them of tension. “Let’s.” He opens the door for Taron, and Taron steps out, leading the way as they head to the parking lot for his car, and then home.

—

Sometimes Taron wonders if it’s a bit off that he and Richard need to spend _more_ time together after filming heavy scenes where they’re basically portraying deep, injurious hatred for one another. He thinks that for most other people, even if your costar was a friend, you’d need a break from one another after something like that. 

But when Richard and Taron step inside his flat, to the cool air and quiet shadows, and Richard looks over and offers Taron a small half-smile, another achingly sweet wave of relief rushes over Taron. Those painful, intrusive emotions get quieter, more distant. Richard’s eyes regain just bit of their sparkle. This, Taron decides, is exactly what he needs after such a terrible scene and he doesn’t give a fuck if it’s a bit needy of them, a bit sappy. 

“Race you to the shower,” Taron tells Richard. Richard quirks a brow at him and then they’re off, bounding up the narrow staircase like pair of rowdy schoolboys. 

“Oi!” Richard protests when Taron knocks a shoulder against him and pushes ahead.

“You snooze, you lose,” Taron says unapologetically when they reach the doorway to his bathroom. It’s all a ruse anyway—Taron always gets in the shower first. Richard pretends to be hurt and flicks Taron’s shoulder. 

It’s a rather large bathroom, with a small bamboo-style bench off to the side of the shower and a small window several feet up above it. Richard settles himself there as Taron switches on the shower and starts pulling off his clothes. “Oh,” he says when he feels the edges of a box of cigarettes and a lighter in his sweatpants. They _are_ Richard’s. “Here.” He digs them out of the pocket and brings them over to Richard, who had already been patting in confusion at the pockets of the ones he’s wearing. 

“Thanks.” Richard gives Taron a smile, taking the cigarettes and lighter from his hand. Richard moves as if to give Taron’s arm or waist a squeeze, a gesture that would any other time be like breathing to them. At the same moment, they both stiffen up and Richard immediately retracts his hand. Still too soon. 

Taron squeezes his eyes shut and hears Richard make a soft, sympathetic noise. Taron shakes his head at himself and blinks his eyes open. “Shower now,” he mutters. Richard gives him a nod and Taron heads back over to the shower. He shucks off his sweatpants and socks, then opens the patterned glass door and steps inside. The water is scalding at first—perfect. Taron sighs and tilts his head back under the spray, letting the water rinse away all the leftover traces of makeup and hairspray and adhesive. 

He cries in the shower; always does, after a hard scene. He tries to keep it quiet but he knows Richard can hear him. The first time it happened, Richard panicked a little but he’s more than used to it now—he doesn’t say a word and Taron is thankful for it. The tears never last too long; it’s just a couple minutes of emotions forcing their way from his body. “Fuck,” he sighs under his breath, when the tears stop. 

Taron can just barely smell the faint pungent odor of tobacco. Richard always has a smoke at this point. He’s careful to exhale up towards that small window and he’s checked a dozen times with Taron that it’s alright. Taron’s never been the fondest of smoking, it isn’t exactly appealing even on Richard, but somehow the acrid, unmistakable scent of it feels grounding in this circumstance. He knows it soothes Richard right now too, that it’s helping it bring him back down the same way the burn of the hot water is for Taron. “Jamie was talking about having a lads’ night out sometime this week,” Taron says. 

“Oh God,” Richard groans. Taron smiles helplessly. “I swear I almost died the last time he did lads’ night out, T, do you remember? I’ve had flus more enjoyable than that hangover.” 

Taron laughs, out loud. It feels excellent, like a rush of clean, fresh air straight into his lungs even though he’s actually immersed in thick tobacco-tinged steam. “You whined about how shitty you felt the whole fucking day,” Taron reminds Richard. He turns around under the spray a bit more, making sure to rinse every part of his body. Each second that goes by he feels more and more himself, more in control of his emotions, his reaction. Just fucking talking with Richard like the mates they are does wonders for him. “It was a bit annoying, really.” 

Richard snorts. “Yeah, and how many _folk remedies_ did you try that day for your headache?” 

“They worked!” Taron defends. 

“Oh, and which one did the trick, do you think? Since you tried them all, I mean.” The smell of tobacco has all but faded away, so Taron knows Richard’s finished his cigarette. He won’t start another one. 

“Tosser,” Taron whines. “We should go to Jamie’s thing though, I think. There’s only a few more weeks we all have filming together.” He frowns a bit as he says it. 

“Of course we will,” Richard assures him. “It’s _Jamie_. He’s loads more fun than just you, anyway.” Taron can hear the smile in his voice. “Jesus, how hot are you running the water this time, Taron?” 

_Taron._ There it is—his name, in full. Taron sighs happily, and lets his eyes close briefly. It shouldn’t be so fucking cliched but with that word finally his mind feels like his own—he’s separate and himself once more. The role, the character, is neatly boxed up again to be taken out tomorrow when he’s up for filming again. His body is still tight and ansty, a bit. Now that the physical sensations have been divorced from unpleasant emotion, it’s only more pent up energy and there’s an obvious solution to that. “As hot as it bloody needs to be, you coward,” Taron retorts, even as he reaches to fiddle with the handle and bring the shower’s temperature down a bit. “Richard,” he says, quiet, and that’s all he needs to say. 

There’s a low rustle as Richard rids himself of his clothes. The anticipation is painful, every second seems to drag, and Taron’s breathing increases rapidly, he has to close his eyes against the onslaught of _almost_. “Rich,” he says, a bit embarrassed by the neediness in his own voice. 

“I’m here,” Richard says, and half a second later, he’s opening up the glass door of the shower and stepping inside with Taron. At last, when Taron looks at his face he just sees Richard—stupidly handsome, pink-cheeked, sultry-eyed Richard, with a breathless half-smile on his face and a twinkle in his gaze. He looks kind, and gorgeous, and—-

“You really are trying to boil yourself alive,” Richard laments, giving an overdramatized wince when the water hits his skin. 

Taron rolls his eyes and wastes no time pressing Richard up against the marble wall just beneath the shower head. Richard hisses as the cool stone hits his back and he grips tightly at Taron’s waist. “Just shut up,” Taron breathes, leaning in to kiss Richard _hard_. He bites Richard’s lips, sharp enough to make Richard whine a little, then ducks his head down, breathing in the scent of Richard. It seems stronger in the damp, steamy air of the shower. He gives Richard a bite on his collarbone, too. 

“T,” Richard hisses, sliding a hand to Taron’s thigh and groping at the muscle there shamelessly. This particular brand of shagging between them is never meant to be an exercise in endurance. Taron grins, wild, and brings his head back up to look Richard in the face while he slots their hips together. “ _Oh_ ,” Richard sighs prettily, eyelids fluttering slightly when their half-hard cocks press together. 

“That’s it,” Taron murmurs, rocking his hips insistently against Richard’s. 

Richard focuses his eyes on Taron’s and the look in them is _feral_ , a gleam that makes Taron deeply understand the motivation for fucking swooning. His cock throbs painfully, rushed to full hardness far too quickly. Richard smirks and suddenly he’s backing them up towards the opposite wall, pressing Taron against it and hoisting one of Taron’s thighs over his own. “Fast, then, yeah?” Richard says breathlessly, into Taron’s mouth. His cock is leaving sticky droplets of precome over Taron’s own. 

Taron smiles and _bites_ down onto Richard’s lip. 

“Fucker,” Richard yelps, even though Taron knows the sting of it gets him off. Richard slips a hand down between them and wraps it around both their cocks together, then starts moving his hips. Taron joins him, and together they work to fuck their cocks into Richard’s tight fist. It’s a messy, sloppy chorus of movement and it already has Taron so fucking close. 

Everything is heightened but contained in this space they’ve created between the two of them—it’s just Taron and Richard and nothing else. Yet somehow that alone is wildly exciting, ridiculously delicious. It feels raw and yet so familiar and if Taron didn’t love his job so much, he’d find a way to do only this, with Richard, for the rest of his life. 

“Taron, Taron, Taron,” Richard is babbling—his _name_ , over and over again. Richard’s free hand is running all over Taron’s body, grabbing at every part he can get at, as if no single touch could ever be enough. Taron can feel the ridges of Richard’s thick cock against his own and drops his chin down so he can see the way the swollen, slick heads of their cocks look together. Richard looks down with him and Taron hears him moan once he catches the sight. 

“ _Richard_ ,” Taron gasps, bucking. He tilts his chin back up and nudges at Richard’s cheek with his nose until Richard does the same. “I’m gonna—I—it’s—I’m gonna come,” he breathes into Richard’s mouth, vision blurry because he is, he’s really going to come. 

“I know,” Richard soothes, tightening his grip and moving his hips more urgently “I know you are,” he says, peppering kisses all over Taron’s face. “C’mon, c’mon. You can do it, c’mon.” 

It feels like every muscle in Taron’s body spasms when he comes, and his cock spurts embarrassingly high, striping up both their chests. It’s all Taron can do to keep himself upright, panting stupidly into Richard’s mouth. He thinks Richard might be trembling a little. The rush of endorphins is everything, an onslaught of feel-good sensations washing over him and making everything _perfect_. As they ebb away, they take away the last of the uncomfortable tension from Taron’s body—discomfort his muscles have clung onto despite his mind having settled since he got into the shower. 

“Fuck,” he sighs when it’s finally done, relaxation so bone deep he can almost taste it. He gives Richard a slack-mouthed, sloppy kiss.

Richard chuckles into his mouth, uncurling his fist and petting gently over Taron’s shoulder. “Good?” His own cock is still painfully hard, blood-hot against the crease of Taron’s thigh but he makes no move to take care of it just yet. 

Taron smiles, so wide he can feel the way his eyes crinkle up at the corner. He laughs, quiet and breathless. “Of course,” he tells Richard, nudging their noses together. “Always.” Unwilling to spare even a second more, he grabs Richard by the hips and spins him around so that they’ve effectively switched places—but Richard is facing the wall. Taron drops to his knees behind him without preamble. He brings one hand around to cup Richard’s cock, to keep it from making contact with the cool marble and because he really just fucking loves Richard’s cock, the feel of it heavy and pulsing in his hand. 

“Oh,” Richard says, voice strangled. 

There’s a small recess in the wall just to their left, ostensibly made for soap. Instead there’s a small bottle of their favorite brand of lubricant tucked into it—put there for such occasions as this one. Taron grabs it up quickly. Were it any other time, Taron would drag this out to the very last second possible. He’d get Richard to the point of tears, work him until he was a puddle on the ground. But that isn’t what this is about in this moment—right now, this is solely about release, relief and connection and _goodness_ after the strain of a long day and hard work. It’s about connecting with themselves and one another after hours stuck in the footsteps of other people: angry, hurt people. 

“Gorgeous,” Taron pants, kissing over the curve of Richard’s arse. He brings his other hand back from where it had been gripping Richard’s cock, making sure Richard keeps his hips tilted up enough from the wall, and flips open the bottle of lubricant, spilling some onto his fingers with haste. “Ready?” 

Richard lets out a deep, grinding groan. “ _Do it_.” 

Taron grins. This won’t be long at all, and that’s fine because just a moment is all he needs. “Okay,” he hums, spreading Richard open with one hand and pressing two fingers in at once. Richard is slick, velvety heat around him, clutching onto Taron’s fingers like his body doesn’t ever want Taron to leave. 

Richard smacks a hand against the wall and lets out a devastatingly attractive moan. Taron gives a shuddery breath and kisses over the light freckles patterned just above the curve of Richard’s arse, in the small of his back. He pulls his fingers in then pushes them back in, reveling in the silky clutch of Richard’s body, so hot it’s like a burn. He begins fucking Richard in earnest, then, and when Richard’s breathing starts to speed out of control, Taron tucks a third finger in. 

“Taron,” Richard keens, his accent so heavy it almost butchers the name—if it weren’t also the most gorgeous way anyone had ever said Taron’s name before. Taron drags his mouth hotly over Richard arse, his thighs. He curls his fingers inside Richard and immediately Richard’s body starts to tighten around him. Taron can feel the rim of muscle just beginning to twitch. 

“There we go,” Taron breathes against Richard’s skin. He inhales greedily, trying to breathe in as much as he can of the intimate, distinctive scent of Richard here. He stands up, keeping his fingers fucking insistently inside Richard’s hole, and kisses along the back of Richard’s neck. “Give it to me,” he murmurs, “you’re almost there. Know you need it.” He reaches up with his free hand and tangles his fingers with Richard’s where he still has a palm flat against the wall. 

Richard cries out, babbles his name incoherently, and then his body is spasming around Taron’s fingers. His head is turned just enough that Taron can see how his brow has bunched up and his mouth has gone slack with pleasure. 

“Richard,” Taron whispers, even though Richard probably can’t even register it at this moment. He nuzzles into the soft bit of skin just below Richard’s ear and presses close until Richard’s hole relaxes around his fingers and he gives a deep, relaxed sigh. Taron pulls his fingers from Richard’s body, stretching his hand out to let it rinse under the shower spray, then bringing it back so he can stroke gently along Richard’s flank. Taron can _feel_ that same wave of relief and satisfaction wash through Richard as he himself had experienced minutes before. 

Richard smiles, lazily. “Do you ever wonder if maybe we aren’t just a little _too_ good at this?” He wriggles against Taron until Taron leans back and Richard can turn around and face him again. The post-orgasm flush is just _stunning_ on his cheeks and Taron feels immensely proud to have been the one to put it there. 

“There’s no such thing,” Taron says seriously. He ducks in for one more kiss. Richard brings a hand up to cup around Taron’s jaw, keeping him in place while Richard presses his tongue into Taron’s mouth, soft, slick, sweet. His body feels properly exhausted now—bed seems like an entirely excellent idea. It would have been hard to sleep, before, with the roil of confusing emotions and agitation built up in his muscles. 

“Wash up,” Richard murmurs against Taron’s mouth. Taron sighs and lets Richard walk him back until they’re directly beneath the spray of water once more. Richard reaches behind Taron to another recess to the side of the shower handle and grabs the soap. It’s an obscenely expensive brand—Richard’s actually, after he had expressed disdain for Taron’s usual bargain brand of lather and implemented his own. 

Taron wrinkles his nose in amusement when he sees the fancy lettering on the bottle; he still think it’s entirely silly and pretentious. “Posh,” he teases. “High maintenance.” 

Richard scoffs, pouring a dollop onto his hand and setting the bottle down beside their feet. “Come off it,” he tells Taron, smoothing the lather over Taron’s chest and shoulders. “You _know_ it’s better.” He works the soap over the rest of Taron’s front, then gives him a pat on the bum. Taron turns round and Richard does that side too. 

“It does _not_ ,” Taron insists. In actuality, Taron couldn’t say for sure whether the expensive soap is better than his standard wash but it does smell like Richard and so he isn’t going to refuse it entirely. Richard tsk-tsks behind him, then taps his shoulder and has him turn around. He cups his hands under the water and makes sure to rinse off all the remaining soap from Taron’s body. 

“You’re just too proud to admit it,” Richard accuses. Taron rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle from the tiled floor, pouring some into his own hands and lathering up Richard’s body, too. He knows he’s always too gentle with this, exposing himself in the tender way he moves his hands over Richard’s body. He can’t really be arsed to care. 

Taron gives a snort. “I’m pretty sure the man that pays seventy quid for a bottle of body wash is the _proud_ one here.” He finishes rinsing Richard off and can’t resist pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, which is set in a frankly adorable pout. 

They wash their hair next—Taron often tells Richard that if the acting gig doesn’t work out for him, he could go into hairdressing, if only for the absolute masterclass of his scalp massage technique. He generally gets a pinch somewhere for that comment. Richard turns to switch off the water once they’ve finished but Taron grabs his hand and stills him. “Hey,” he says. “Thank you.” 

Richard gives him a soft smile. “Don’t thank me, idiot. Makes it sound like you’re paying me or something.” He laughs when Taron smacks his shoulder and tugs Taron in for a hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs into Taron’s ear. Taron sighs and relaxes into the embrace for a moment. Richard presses a soft kiss to his neck, then steps back and switches the water off. 

They step out of the shower and Taron curses instantly at the unwelcome chill of fresh air on his shower-damp skin. Richard laughs right at him but grabs a towel and drapes it around Taron’s shoulders before he even pulls on one for himself. Once they’re dry, they pull the same shirts and sweatpants they’d come in with back on—they’re hardly worn. Taron puts on Richard’s clothes again, and maybe this time he does it on purpose. Richard gives him a knowing smile but doesn’t call him out. 

“Biscuits for dinner?” Taron asks when they’re both clothed. 

“Brilliant,” Richard confirms. 

He and Richard munch on their biscuits in bed—the crumbs will be a nuisance come morning, but for now they are part of a simple, profoundly soothing moment of peace and comfort. “Mmph,” Taron says when he’s had his fill, patting his abdomen contentedly. Richard hums in agreement, plucking the last biscuit from the tin, shoving it into his mouth, and then placing the empty tin on the nightstand. “Hey,” Taron says, just to be petulant. 

Richard rolls his eyes but breaks off half the biscuit and offers it to Taron. 

“I don’t want your germs!” Taron says in mock outrage, just to see Richard try to sass back at him with his mouth full. He takes the treat from Richard’s fingers and eats it happily. He turns to switch off the light while Richard is still finishing his mouthful. 

“You are _such_ a twat,” Richard says, finally, voice thick from the biscuit. Taron laughs, heartily, until Richard rolls over and kisses him to shut him up. 

He tastes like chocolate and sugar and _good_. “Mm,” Taron says appreciatively, licking his lips when Richard pulls back. “Yummy.” Richard chuckles and as Taron’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness a bit, he can see Richard shaking his head exasperatedly at him. Richard brings his hand up and brushes his knuckles gently against Taron’s cheek. 

“How are you doing?” Richard’s voice is even more affecting in the darkness and Taron closes his eyes briefly, just to enjoy the cadence of it. He opens them again and brings his arms up so he can push his hands beneath the back of Richard’s shirt and move them in long, sweeping motions over the skin there. 

“I’m good,” he says simply. “Really good.” He lets his hands pause in their movement, instead resting his palms flat on the expanse of Richard’s skin. “And you?” 

Richard ducks down to press a light kiss to the corner of Taron’s mouth, and then he turns to lay on his side beside Taron. “Yeah, me too,” he confirms. His hand comes up to trace over Taron’s features, so gentle again. “It’s never….” He sighs. “It’s never easy. Talking to—well, to _anyone_ —that way. But especially…especially not to you.” Richard’s hand fumbles around for a minute before it finds Taron’s own, and he brings it up to his mouth, kissing over Taron’s fingers briefly. 

Taron is quiet for a moment. “I know.” He _does_ know. He fucking loves his job and some of the most rewarding, fascinating work is the bitterly difficult bits like this. That never makes it easy, though. It’s never easy to stand there while Richard, his best mate and the man currently sharing his bed on a pretty much nightly basis, spews vitriol at him. It’s never easy to scream in pain and grief back at him. It’s never easy to do all this while inside the head of Elton—who suffered even more imaginably than the film could show in its entirety, to know how vicious the relationship they are portraying was. It’s never easy but… 

“I couldn’t do it without you,” Taron whispers. “Like, Jesus, Richard. These scenes we do, these things we have to say or do. Genuinely, I’m not sure I could do that with anyone else, you know? It’s only _safe_ enough, I only _connect_ enough with you.” He shifts onto his side too and reaches out to grip Richard’s shoulder in the dark. “And do you know what? It’s because you’re such a fucking _good_ actor, I mean it. This film—I’m glad it has you. It’s going to be really, really great and please know you’re such a key part of that, yeah?” 

Richard’s breathing is a bit heavier but for the most part he’s silent for a while. Taron doesn’t mind, gives him his space. “Jesus, T,” Richard breathes, finally. “Did you rehearse that? Trying to proper sweep me off my feet?” 

Taron laughs and kicks a foot out at one of Richard’s shins. “Don’t be an arsehole,” he scolds. 

“I can’t wait for the whole fucking world to see what _magic_ you are,” Richard says, abrupt and fierce. “You know that, right? That what you’ve done with this is magic?” He leans over and gives Taron a firm, quick kiss. “It’s all a bit threatening, really,” Richard continues, the lilt of teasing back in his voice. “I’m gonna develop an inferiority complex because of you, I swear.”

Taron _laughs_. “Oh, please. I don’t think it’s possible for an ego like yours to come anywhere near feeling inferior.” He nudges their noses together, trying for a kiss but smiling too widely to give a proper one. He gives up and moves closer so he can nuzzle into Richard’s neck instead. “Thank you,” he whispers. Taron has worked so fucking hard on this film and he doesn’t doubt he wouldn’t love it just as much no matter who he was cast with but he doubts it would feel so...so transcendental without _these_ castmates, without _Richard_. 

“Thank you,” he says one more time. The exhaustion of the day is quickly catching up with him and he can feel sleep settling into Richard’s body too. He maneuvers them so that he can spoon Richard properly, slinging an arm around his waist and tucking a chin over his shoulder. 

“Magic,” Richard repeats drowsily, the word accent-thick in the still night air. 

Tomorrow is a new day of filming and Taron knows he’ll be ready and excited for anything that gets thrown his way—this _film_ , and everything it’s created, is the real magic. Taron buries a smile into Richard’s shoulder and breathes in the smell of that stupidly expensive soap, lulled to sleep by the soft, puffing breaths of Richard already dreaming away in his arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> i know my previous two fics were far less heavy on the emotions and the porn was more involved and the banter was more lighthearted, i hope this didn't disappoint too much. 
> 
> kudos and comments (i reply) really do light up my day. 
> 
> there are still more ideas brewing in my mind for these two. stay tuned to see if they come to any fruition.


End file.
